


Cravings

by sarahlorien



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Morally Ambiguous Character, Romance, deliberate stylistic choices here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6614521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahlorien/pseuds/sarahlorien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His voice is drizzled in honey; sweet and soft and smooth—he’s smooth. He glides when he moves, he soars when he intends to move. She thinks it feels like harmony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cravings

_There’s rain against the glass when he first catches her attention._ Sharp looks, dew-coated hair, dark eyes—his tongue runs across his bottom lip as he passes the threshold of the cafe. Oxygen seems a sacred element to her suddenly.

Her eyes catch his like the jagged edge of a page in a book. He watches her watching him. She’s the first to look away. She doesn’t pretend to be shy; she doesn’t have to. 

But his smile stays with her as she walks home; raindrops splattering rhythmically against her umbrella in time with her steps.

 

* * *

 

_The stars look very different when she next sees him._ Her shoes are clasped in her hand by her side, mouth agape and hair fuzzed. The boy—the same boy, there, in front of her in the queue at the twenty-four hour Kmart. It’s close to midnight and her lipstick’s smudged beyond recognition.

Embarrassment is second nature now. But he holds her stare this time, expression shrewd with recollection and surprise. 

“You’ve got... ah...” At his feeble gesture towards her lip, warm blush paints her face.

“Yeah.” Her voice isn’t strong, but she isn’t weak either.

The silence that they fall into defines discomfort. Anxious fidgeting and staggered eye contact before he reaches the front of the queue. And when he’s done, he waits.

“I saw you, at—”

“Yeah, that was me.”

He nods. His jawline, _the_ jawline—carved, created, moulded into sharp features—juts out as he does so. “Calum.”

“Cassie.”

 

* * *

 

 _Sunny yellow paints the skyline; his smile meets hers._ They’re exactly a day into ‘more than friends’ and seeing him feels like coming home. They’re also exactly two months into ‘introductions’ and knowing him is like finding the missing piece in a puzzle.

His voice is drizzled in honey; sweet and soft and smooth—he’s smooth. He glides when he moves, he soars when he _intends_ to move. She thinks it feels like harmony.

And for a while, it is.

For a while it’s phone calls after dark and text messages in the morning. It’s perfect-temperature coffee in the morning and hot chocolate in the evening. Sometimes it’s movies past midnight and snuggling whenever they’re available. 

They don’t have to strive for closeness; between them it’s completely attainable.

 

* * *

 

_A navy-dipped sky coats them in darkness, few clouds float along—like they’ve been felted into existence._

Tucked away, his name’s hot on her lips, skin flush against her own. It’s friction. It’s a collision. It’s raw. It’s right. (It’s _wrong_.)

There’s an absolute frenzy—a blur; hungry, excited, enticed. And temptation, _temptation_ ,  **temptation**.

She’s a mess. He’s a mess. They’re a mess. It’s a mess. And he’s not entirely sure if it’s a moan of pain or pleasure when he tangles his hand in her hair. His lips are pressing against her neck, then, tongue sliding along her collarbones.

She huffs.

Her bones are like matchsticks but blood like boiling water as his fingertips trace over her body; down her spine, over her thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps. He’s breathing in her scent—lust on his lips; his name on hers.

She’s his damnation. He’s her salvation.

 

* * *

 

 _Clouds drift in from all angles like the underside of waves, rolling. It’s grey._ His hand is clammy as he claps hers in his own. “I’m sorry.” His voice is barbed wire, an off-cut, crackling but not like a dulling fire—basically his fluidity is lacking.

She dismisses it as a character flaw; she has plenty herself so why can’t he have any. It isn’t as if he’s supreme or perfect or celestial. But he’s running away like water through her fingertips before she has time to realise that he’s going, he’s going—he’ll be gone before she knows it.

And she’s so scared that she’ll miss it; so she holds on to the apology like lifeblood; but even blood drips out until the body is only resembling hues of concrete; cold and dry (hard and lifeless). 

Part of her thinks she wouldn't be able to stand that, but she tugs her hand from his anyway; no matter the apology—no matter the abstract thought that she can't see or touch or taste or _believe_ , she has more faith in that than she does in him being there; right there.

 

* * *

 

 _Everything is saturated in shades of orange; amber, apricot, marigold, vermillion._ His brown eyes look golden in the late hours of the afternoon. Who knew something so bitter could come off so sweet.

They bite back harsh words for kinder ones, even if they don’t mean them. 

Stains decorate every available surface of their dignities until there’s nothing left but the red onslaught from every argument, every bittersweet moment. Mockery, scorn and contempt flood them until they’re pushed so far apart that they blend into the richly soaked sunset around them. 

It doesn’t matter that he’s sharp and fiery—no more soft edges to lean on or against; even his tongue is a blade she daren’t play with. At least now he’s as sharp as he looks.

It’s easier for her to breathe though.

 

* * *

 

_Charcoal dusts the underside of the thunderstorm, erupting with a heavy downpour._

He leaves her with holes in her heart—but wait, no, he leaves her with no heart at all.

**Author's Note:**

> So ah, this happened when I fell on the keyboard. x


End file.
